The I Ching, or Book of Changes, is one of the oldest books in the Chinese canon. At its base lie sixty-four figures, each made of six horizontal lines that are either whole or divided. James Legge, whose 1882 translation this page follows, separates the work into two layers that grew centuries apart: the Text, a brief judgment on each figure with notes on its individual lines, and the Appendixes, a set of later commentaries that the Confucian tradition received as part of the classic.
The lines are the alphabet of the system. A whole line stands for the bright, strong, active force and a divided line for the dark, weak, yielding force, the pair the appendixes name yang and yin. Tradition holds that the legendary Fu-hsi first devised the eight trigrams of three lines each, that King Wan multiplied them into the sixty-four hexagrams while imprisoned, and that his son the duke of Kau wrote the explanations of the separate lines. What a line means depends on whether it is strong or weak, where it sits, and how it answers the line that corresponds to it.
Each hexagram is meant to capture a typical situation. The first, Khien, is six whole lines and represents what is great and originating, pictured through a dragon that hides, appears, rises, and at last overreaches. The second, Khwan, is six divided lines and represents the receptive earth. From the opening pair onward, the readings move between fortune and misfortune, repentance and regret, advance and retreat, always tying the abstract figure to a concrete question a person might bring to the oracle.
The deeper philosophy lives in the appendixes, above all the Great Appendix. There the figures are matched to the workings of nature: heaven is high and earth is low, movement and rest mark the strong and the weak, and the strong and weak lines displace each other to produce all the changes. Change itself is defined as production and reproduction without end, and the alternating play of the inactive and active operations is called the course of things. The good see this course and call it good; the wise call it wisdom; ordinary people live by it daily without knowing it.
Legge presents the book soberly. He treats it first as a manual of divination, preserved when other ancient texts were burned because it was useful for telling fortunes, and only later overlaid with the moral and cosmological readings of the Confucian school. He resists the idea that the figures hide a secret science, yet he takes seriously how the tradition used them: as a mirror held up to nature in which the superior man learns the right timing for action and restraint, and reads in the ceaseless turning of strong and weak the pattern of his own conduct.